


Entering the Void

by girlintheglen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 21:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/pseuds/girlintheglen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What will the men from UNCLE find behind the archaic doors that face them? An entry for PicFic at Section VII on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entering the Void

 

 

Under a cloudy sky that made the day seem even colder than it was, two men approached a battered doorway that was bleached by the sun from its former aqua hue and set almost haphazardly within a crumbling façade.  The wall looked as though ready to collapse into itself if not for the support of the decrepit doors.

 The bigger of the two men, dark haired and handsome by most standards, was dressed in khakis and a cable knit sweater.  He looked almost collegiate in loafers and a corduroy jacket, although that would have been deceptive; this one was dangerous.  

The other man, smaller in stature and blond, wore jeans.  A black turtleneck sweater seemed to augment the effect of his hair being a type of beacon even if his demeanor suggested otherwise.  With boots he was almost as tall as his companion, although there was a sense that he was not dependent on any accoutrement that others might use to alter their appearances.  He had learned to use whatever he possessed to his advantage. 

As the two approached the old doors a chill wind blew across their backs, causing them to each silently wonder if it might be a harbinger of what lay beyond the peeling paint and rotting wood. 

“I don’t suppose there’s any doubt that this is where we are to meet the mysterious informant.”  The blond asked it of his partner, knowing full well that they were at the correct meeting place. 

“Does that mean you don’t want to go in first?  Gee Illya, I thought you didn’t believe in superstitions.”  Napoleon Solo had listened to his Russian partner belittle the superstitious beliefs of almost _everyone_ , and the superiority of the scientific approach to _everything_.  It was somehow gratifying to know that this place, with its tales of haunting spirits, had somehow spooked the unspookable Kuryakin. 

“If you are suggesting that I am afraid, then I will gladly open the door for you.  I just thought it possible that your source may be as duplicitous as that jacket you are wearing.”  The blond didn’t smile as he referenced the unusual wardrobe his partner had donned for this assignment.  Napoleon’s role as an academic of sorts had required he forego his usual suave attire for the role he enacted. 

“Please do, IK.  We can use your head for a flashlight.  How do you ever sneak into anywhere with that mop of hair?”  The Russian made a face at the remark, but more so at the pair’s apparent lack of their usual synchronism.  Something was off and neither man knew what was responsible. 

“Napoleon, I admit this place gives me, as you would call it, the creeps.  I am not entirely confident of your source; he might not be entirely reliable… or honest.”  Solo considered what Illya was saying to him, and as the other man was about to turn the knob on the grizzled old door he reached out to stop him. 

“You may be right.  Everything about this has put me on edge, so what do you say we go look for an alternate way in?”  Illya nodded his agreement, slowly removing his hand from the doorknob.  As he did a spark flew off of the tarnished metal, shocking Illya and throwing him backwards onto the gravelly road. 

“Illya!’  Napoleon was kneeling at the side of his partner as Illya shook his head to clear it from the shock he had just received. “What was that?”  Illya sat up, still slightly shaken from the current of electricity.  He thought he saw a haze of blue around Napoleon as he tried to focus on his friend.  It was a surprise to his still fuzzy mind when he saw a smile on the American’s face that seemed to be subduing a chuckle. 

“You find this humorous, Napoleon?”  His body ached and now his head was pounding; Illya Kuryakin was tempted to deck his partner.  Napoleon resisted the temptation to use his camera as he looked at the Russian’s head surrounded by a halo of blond hair standing on end. 

“Tovarisch,’ Still grinning, Solo reached out his hand to help his partner stand.  “Can you feel your hair?  Because right now you look more like a troll doll than spy.”  Illya wrinkled his nose and canted his head, not understanding the reference to a troll.  In a sudden and uncharacteristic panic, the Russian had a vision of himself as a mutated creature, forever marred by the electric shock he had received. 

It showed on the deceptively youthful countenance of the blond agent, and Napoleon got another laugh at his friend’s expense as he reckoned on the effect of his comment.  

 _So, Illya did care how he looked_. 

Napoleon ran his hand over Illya’s head, was amazed at the crackling effect as the hair literally danced in response.  In an ironically lightening quick movement, the blond grabbed his partner’s wrist and stopped the tour of his electrified hair. 

“Very funny, Napoleon.’ Clenched teeth added to the effect of extreme irritation. “Is there anything else … wrong?  I don’t feel burned or …”  Napoleon was shaking his head, ready to reassure his concerned friend that he looked fine.  Well, except for the hair. 

“You look fine, just… well, your hair is standing on end.  I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”  Illya was standing now, dusting himself off while Napoleon continued to observe the waving hair. 

“So, do we continue?  I am fine, by the way.” That last was said with a smirk, greeted with a smile in return. 

Now the object was to find another way into this mysterious fortress.  The wall into which the doors were set was the front of a two story building.  There were no windows facing the street, and it appeared to be solidly attached to the buildings on either side. 

“I don’t see how we can get around this without going all the way to the top of this little street.  Shall we, or do we try this door once again?”  Napoleon was ready to take his turn at the task, and at Illya’s nod he extended his hand. 

“Wait!”  Illya grabbed Napoleon’s hand before it touched the doorknob.  Reaching into his jacket pocket, the always prepared agent pulled out a small piece of wire and attached it to a rusted hinge. 

“I think this might be a better way.  It will announce us and remove any doubt of our intentions.”  With that the two men turned their backs as Illya engaged the explosive charge.  A hiss and then a resounding boom blew the doors into the room within.  Amidst smoke and dust, Solo and Kuryakin entered the mysterious building in search of the target of this affair. 

They stood, allowing the light to invade where it had previously been denied entry.  Seated in a corner of the room in a high backed chair, a familiar face was illuminated by the streaks of daylight.  Napoleon started to approach but was halted as once again his partner stopped his progress. 

“Look Napoleon.  He is dead, and the item in his lap looks like a bomb.”  Solo stopped, aware now of the wires traveling from the body, along the floor to a metal plate directly in his path. 

A low whistle escaped as he acknowledged the trap.  “Nice.  I guess my source isn’t as friendly as I had hoped.”  The image of a beautiful woman flashed across his mind as he reprimanded himself before Illya could do it. 

“I know.  I shouldn’t have trusted her, but…”  Illya rolled his eyes, glad that the worst of this had been his electrified hair.  “Obviously your charm was not quite sufficient to quell her devotion to THRUSH.’  A wince of acknowledgement from Napoleon was enough to satisfy the Russian. 

“Very well.  Let us remove ourselves from this deathtrap and return to Paris.  Your tenure as a visiting professor is now officially over, and I have an engagement this evening with my new band.” 

“Seriously, you’re still going to play tonight.  We need to write reports and …’  Napoleon knew this time he’d be the one writing the report.  Still, there was the matter of Illya’s hair. 

“What are you going to do about…’ A not too subtle nod indicated the still flying blond haze around the Russian’s head.  It had diminished slightly, but the opportunity to get some mileage out of this was irresistible to the senior agent. 

“A shower ought to help.  I can always wear a hat.” 

 It was a dull end to this affair, with no real resolution except for the knowledge that their prey was already dead at the hands of his own people. 

“I suppose it was too much to ask that someone of Hiller’s stature within the Hierarchy could defect without a trail for THRUSH to follow.  Shame really, he had information that might have given us a real upper hand in this battle.”  Napoleon felt the weight of his position as Chief Enforcement Agent for the Northwest region of UNCLE, and as the heir apparent to Alexander Waverly’s job as well.  Illya took note of the serious tone in his friend’s voice, equally aware of what had been hoped for, and now lost. 

“You, my friend, need to come to the club tonight and enjoy the evening.  I can promise you music and the presence of several beautiful women, all of whom will be most willing to help you forget today’s unfortunate derailment.” 

Napoleon knew the invitation was genuine; the concern expressed one of a good friend and partner.  He appreciated Kuryakin, for his talents as an agent and his absolute devotion as a friend. 

“That sounds like a very good way to spend our last night in Paris.’ He smiled at what seemed a twist on their normal roles.  “I can’t believe you’re trying to set me up with a woman.  I must be slipping.” 

Illya slapped him on the back as they made their way back to the blue Citroen in which they had arrived at this desolate little spot.  The trip back to the city would be spent composing a report and talking to Headquarters.  The evening would bear little resemblance to their day.


End file.
